


You are everything (I can't have)

by Catherines_Collections



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sensuality, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:17:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/pseuds/Catherines_Collections
Summary: Barry's drunk and so is he and later that's what he'll blame the entire event on: a lack of sobriety calling for a lapse in judgment.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Comment fic fill. Funny enough Barry and Joe and no where near my favorites in the Flash *cough* Cisco Ramon and Harrison Wells Earth2 *cough* but they are the ones I can write? This is my life. 
> 
> I own nothing, enjoy.

It's Barry's twenty-first birthday. Iris has arranged the entire party, hosting it at their house and ensuring the arrival of every guest Barry wanted there. 

It was near the end of the party, the time where the rowdy young adults leave, sharing kind words in slurred voices and are carried off by their more sober friends with apologies and quiet mumbles of great thanks. 

Iris laughs kindly and plays the wonderful host as she bids each guest farewell until there is no one else left but Iris, him, and Barry. 

It's dark outside now, as they near one in the morning with the party having gone longer that expected, and the house lights dim giving the house a faint orange glow. 

Joe and Barry help her clean up after their guest, Barry swaying from the alcohol he's consumed and Iris throwing herself into everything, still feeding off of the energy their young friends had left behind. 

Iris leaves too, thirty minutes later; they call her a cab. Joe hugs her goodbye and Barry kisses her on the cheek and thanks her with a wide dopey smile splitting his face, for the amazing night. She smiles endearingly at him, leaning in to gently kiss his cheek, before she gets in her cab. They both wave until she's out of sight. 

When they get inside Joe bends down to collect some of the bottles littering the living room floor, and Barry follows suit. The faint orange tint of the fireplace makes the room feel different, smaller and warmer: more intimate. 

Maybe that's why it happens, when he turns around the same time as Barry and find their bodies nearly flush together, breaths mingling, and hearts beating erratically. They are both cloaked in the warm orange glow and this close he can see the warm flush crawling up the boy's neck. 

Barry's drunk and so is he and later that's what he'll blame the entire event on: a lack of sobriety equalling a lapse in judgment. 

"You're drunk," Joe says, swallowing hard and dry as he looks at the flushing boy before him. 

"Am I?" Barry responds, and it's a breathy whisper, words curled at the ends and brimming with unadulterated want and unfulfilled desire, and Joe's entire body shivers at the boy's tone. 

Barry's looking at him, his heart in his eyes mixing with something, a look, a moment, that never should be directed at him, and if he were a good man - a responsible unselfish man- he would ignore it. He would step away and they would laugh it off, and he'd offer to clean up the rest while Barry tucked himself away safely in bed. But he isn't a good man and Barry's less than a foot in front of him staring at him like he's everything, and Joe moves. 

He inches closer, lifts his hand and slowly, deliberately, delicately, allows his thumb to gently brush across Barry's bottom lip: it's the forbidden touch, a taboo. It's unmentionable, unprofessional, and he pretends that doesn't make any of this any hotter. He feels Barry's breath catch, watches his pupils dilate before the his eyelids flutter closed, overcome by a state of bliss, and he leans closer to Joe. 

It's sensual, intentional, like a game they've both been thinking about for far too long. A game that shouldn't exists, that there are rules to that are going blatantly ignored, and that's what breaks Joe from the spell.

(It's always rules to be followed and protocols to be acted out that bring him back; not necessarily to himself, but to the man he's supposed to be. Sometimes It's the officer who follows orders, or the father who cares, but mostly it's the adopted father who prevents.)

He steps back and Barry opens his eyes, disappoint flitting across his face, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at the sudden disturbance, but still he doesn't move. 

Joe clears his throat and glances out at the moon glowing in from their window, refusing to make further eye contact in fear of what he may see - he is not a strong enough man to resists twice - and says, "We should finish cleaning."

For a solid second it is only them, their shadows from the fire, and the moon. It's as if the world has frozen around them and stolen his breath. He can still hear the beat of Barry's heart alongside the crackling of the fire and it's the most relaxed he's been in weeks. Joe keeps his head turned away, knowing what it could lead to if he were to look back, all of the possibilities tat neither of them are ready for.

"Yeah," echoes Barry quietly, disappointment and something unidentifiable leaking into his tone, "I guess we should."

They don't talk about it after. When Barry wakes up the next morning he smiles the same, if not a bit sharper or sadder but Joe thinks he may just be looking too closely, and makes a joke about the hell of hangovers. If Joe's laugh is a little strangled and his eyes don't quite meet Barry's, he doesn't mention it. 

He should be relieved that Barry doesn't remember but there's still something in his mind that whispers the forbidden what if and most times he is.

Sometimes though, when Barry's looks linger a little too long or his smiles grow a little too sharp when directed at him, Joe wonders if he does remember; if he has any ounce of memory from the night Joe knows he will never forget. But then the looks slide over to Iris or Cisco and the sharp smiles turn to playful smirks and the small ounce of hope he allowed himself to feel is crushed.

On certain nights - dark, lit dimly orange, and drowned with various forms of alcohol - in his shame he recalls flushed cheeks, warm lips, and eyes that stared into him like he was everything. 

He stares ahead of himself in the darkness of his home and thinks, speculates, dreams.

He never brings it up; he's smarter than that, not so foolishly besotted as to risk everything he holds dear for a quick moment and less than promising chance.

He stares into his empty fireplace, sighs as the dreams alter around the edges, and begin to replicate memories. He brings the bottle to his lips and pushes away the other thoughts threatening to cloud his mind.

Somethings, he knows, are better off forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
